


Operation Sofa

by The Hag (hagsrus)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, Scrabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hagsrus/pseuds/The%20Hag
Summary: Older lads domestic fluff, written for the Bistocon 2016 zine





	Operation Sofa

"ZAX? Come on, Ray, that's a proper name."

"Yeah?" Doyle was all innocence. "Who?"

"Bloke in that godawful film Janice made us watch last Christmas because he looked a bit like you donkey's years ago."

Doyle sighed dramatically. "At least my loving sister remembers my youthful beauty when no one else does." 

"Not to mention your engaging modesty."

"Caught that off you, mate. It's in Dr Seuss too," Doyle said.

"What is?"

"The Zax."

"Still a proper -- " 

"You challenging? Want the dictionary?"

"All right, spit it out, then, Mr Unabridged Oxford."

"Tool for trimming roofing tiles." Doyle grinned smugly. "And the X is on a triple letter so - oi!"

The evening's Great Cat Steeplechase had suddenly launched, bouncing off the back of the sofa into the middle of the board, sending tiles exploding in all directions amid a gush of spilled beer. 

With considerable profanity Castor and Pollux were chased into the kitchen and the laborious task of rescuing and counting the tiles began.

"One short," Bodie concluded morosely.

"If it's just an E or something..." Doyle started making little stacks. "The Q. Wouldn't you bloody know it!" 

"Can't play Scrabble without the Q," Bodie declared. "Half the fun, waiting for it to show up, and hoarding U's."

"We could ink it in on one of the blanks," Doyle suggested. "Or we could buy another set. I bet you can get replacement tiles on EBay."

"Sod that. Must have gone under the sofa." Bodie crouched and ran a hopeful hand into the darkness. "Ugh, it's wet. Those blasted animals!"

"Just where the beer spilled," Doyle reassured him. "Probably."

They looked at each other in mutual acceptance of the inevitable.

"Been talking about doing it for months," Doyle said. "Tonight's the night, then."

"Thought we had something better lined up. Not going to have the strength after shifting that blasted sofa. Not as young as I used to be, you know. My arthritis..."

"Come on, you're not that feeble. Wait till you get to be my age! One good heave!"

"Heave the damn cats, right out the window. And what they've got stashed under there..."

"I'll get the broom."

"Bring some more beer, too," Bodie called after him. "Could be a long job."

A few minutes later, cats juggled back into the kitchen with threats and treats, and Bodie fortified with a long swig of brown ale, they had hauled the sofa away from the wall.

"Enough balls to last nine lifetimes," Doyle observed. 

"Nostalgia for what they once had." Bodie shook his head. "Plastic, rubber, fluffy -- there's two shiny ones off the Christmas tree we had last year for half an hour before they did their lumberjack impression. You know, Ray, when you talked me into --"

"Trade 'em in for a puppy?"

"Just what we need. Wouldn't be trading, would it? Surprised you haven't got rabbits in the bathroom and chickens in the window boxes." Bodie prodded with a cautious toe. "Oh god, is that -- ?"

"Eerghh... No, it's just a dried up sausage. Wonder why they didn't eat it?"

"One of those extra spicy chicken things we tried that time," Bodie recalled. "Hope they scorched their horrible little mouths on it!"

"There's your grey sock that went missing."

"With a tasteful garnish of crushed eggshell. How did they do that? And two - no, three teaspoons. No wonder we can never find any."

"And what's all those screwed up bits of paper?"

Bodie stooped to retrieve one and flattened it out. "Ah -- 'Dear Ray, the child support is past due again. Pay up or I'll send the bailiffs in.' Oh, good, they can take the cats. Well, no shortage of pens back here if you're going to write out a cheque."

"Hey, isn't that the cup off the Thermos?" Doyle started to sweep the clutter into a pile.

Bodie retrieved scattered treasure. "Eight pound coins!"

"Those'll be mine," Doyle claimed. "Do nicely for the child support. You can have that manky dish sponge. Fancy some catnip mice?"

"Trying to give them up. Must have lost their nip by now, anyway. Cor, two whisky miniatures! That's more like it! And a handy bit of string."

Doyle chanted: "'Sing, sing, what shall I sing, the cat's run away with the pudding string.'"

"Lovely steamed pud Gran use to make," Bodie recalled wistfully. "Golden syrup at the bottom of the bowl so it came out on top when it was turned out. Or marmalade sometimes."

"Stodgy," said Doyle. "Well, why don't you make one, then? Oh, don't give me those big blue eyes!"

"You can have the whisky," Bodie coaxed. "And I'll throw in the dish sponge."

"Perhaps... I'll think about it. Stop bloody smirking. What's that black thing over in the corner?" Doyle hooked it with the broom. 

Bodie picked it up. "Silicone... bloody hell! Didn't know we had one of these!"

"So that's what the mogs buy with their ill-gotten gains! Gawd only knows what else they were saving up for with that eight quid."

"But -- ?"

Doyle pondered. "Yeah. Remember that time after we did a late night security job for Wossname and we were out of lube and all the chemists were shut so we went in that boutique? Delia's Den of Daring Delights or some such? All frilly knickers and strap-ons."

"Don't remember buying any toys, though."

"Unadventurous, that's us. No, they had some kind of free gift deal and it was there in the bag. I suppose it rolled off wherever we dumped it."

"Knocked off, more like. Castor's a devil for that. Well, at least it's got nothing worse than dust on it. Still haven't found the Q," Bodie griped.

"Have to be one of the blanks, then, until it shows up. What do we do with all this crap?"

"Stick it in the wastepaper basket and sort it out tomorrow. I've had it for tonight."

"Too tired for a bit of use-it-or-lose-it?"

"Well... Not that tired. Come on, let's shift the sofa back."

They shifted it, and sat on it for a little alcoholic refreshment, then Doyle said resignedly, "Better let the mogs out before they break the door down." A couple of minutes later he returned, triumphantly proclaiming: "Got the Q!"

"Where?"

"The water bowl."

"How -- oh, never mind. Get off me, Pollux, it's bedtime."

"At least we don't have to walk the puppy, though a bit of exercise before bed -- "

"Ray, look -- " Bodie delved into the wastepaper basket and brandished the butt-plug. "You are the light of my life, music of my heart, steam of my pudding, but sometimes it's a damn close-run thing. And one more word about puppies or guinea pigs or iguanas and I'll -- "

"Promises, promises! Got something better than silicone, as I recall."

They retired for the night's enjoyment.

Castor and Pollux restored the various items from the wastepaper basket to their rightful home. They were almost professional about it.


End file.
